fleeting
by mayfairs
Summary: This love is taking it's toll on me, /a series of drabbles written focused on imagery and not plot/ FOUR. THE LINGERER.
1. the musicbox

It is a soft sound, cringing, tingling, but setting off alarm bells. It's like that there should be a music box playing away, with it's crackled tune and it's broken dancer who lost all of her hope in cruel reality.

* * *

_Crack, crack, crack._

_

* * *

_

It is mundane and repeated enough for people to want to blank out and their minds would slowly forget this sound, this mysterious sound that goes unidentified in the head, and it is present, forever so, in the form, or maybe, form isn't the right word, of a numbing pressure people liked to call a 'headache'.

It's strange though, because 'headaches' tend to cause pain and this pressure does nothing.

Somewhere, somehow, there's a contradiction. It crawls under_ your _skin and make _you_ feel alien. It's not _your _skin any more. It's invaded by these alien emotions and _you_ hate the fact that they slowly aren't so alien any more. _You_ realise _you're_ getting used to it. _Your_ skin is no longer as thick as _you _remember. Or care to remember.

The sound turns into a mild scratching now, and it almost pains _your_ ears to the point _you _feel that 'headache', but that's only almost.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

What it is scratching at, you're not so sure. Old canvas with caked, dry paint? A wooden table?

Or is it _your_ head?

* * *

This is your turning point. This is the moment when you choose. This is the moment where no one is going to tell you, resent you, hate you, break bonds with you for the choice you will make tonight.

Your lips are dry.

You dig into your pocked and smear the lip cream on.

You lick you lips, and that's when you realise it's not enough.

You want more.

And your mouth is dry, and your hair isn't washed, and you look a mess. Musicians work hard, and they grin and bare it for the sake of it.

But what is 'it'?

It's too tiring to think more about it, it hurts that pressure on your head.

Your hand is trembling, and the whiteness of the pills in your hand looks not too different with the backdrop of your pale, pale skin. There isn't a lot in your hands, and this passes through your brain.

You suddenly become aware of the chair you are sitting on, the bar you are probably in, the violin case resting somewhere you're not so sure of, the grin on the savage men who look forward to seeing your downfall, and then – _and then_ -

You take them all at once.

* * *

this is going to be a pot future project, if it all turns out well. They are going to be random, but I think they'll all be dark. Idk if this is going to continue, if i'm honest.


	2. the young flower

You love her. She loves him. He probably goes out every day and fucks a different chick like it's a human instinct. Why the fuck is he in this mess anyway? He doesn't need to be. He doesn't, really.

But he's still there.

It's for her, he thinks. He doesn't want to let go of her, and he's sunk so bloody low he doesn't even know who he is any more. She's ruined him. He no longer recognises the reflection in the mirror, and _it's all her fault _but he can never bring himself to hate her. Nope, not her. Not her beautiful smiles. Not her careful manner of speech. He would always overlook the little white lies and those mistakes like the piles of paperwork (that have a lesser importance) in his office.

She smells nice, he supposed. Her skin is youthful and smooth, delicate like a flower.

But, oh, how he _wants_ her.

He is definitely turning into something he doesn't know. Yes, he knows he's no longer human, nor animal, he is driven by only instinct and _lust_, oh, lust.

His eyes are jaded, and he would gasp, and groan, and shiver with want.

* * *

What he wants, he will get.

* * *

And he imagines it. She's withering, screaming, begging him to stop it, while he touches her when she clearly loves another motherfucking player, but no, she doesn't understand that she's driving him crazy. Every pant of hers, every scream, every time the octaves of her voice raise he gets a kick. It's not always sharp, not always bliss, but it's there.

* * *

There is something pushing in his mind. Is it his sanity? Is the fucking weight of reality finally gone? Will he be able to reach her, keep her, trap her like a golden bird?

* * *

_YES. WITHOUT A DOUBT._

_

* * *

_

The young maiden with flawless skin, soft brown hair, upbraided, sits with less to no concern. She still trusts him even though she is in a room with only a bed for furniture.

* * *

He opens his eyes.

* * *

"It won't hurt a bit, _my love_."

* * *

i didn't want to put fuji's name in there, but i saw it as insane!fuji/sakuno. see it however you like. i think i failed with imagery on this peice, and it's really, really short. i think it's a style that i will continue with this - the vagueness of the characters. there will only be subtle hints of who is who, but i'm sure you'll know, i guess. **thanks for reading!**


	3. the nightmare

You see it to the point you can almost hold it, just like snow globes that are small and make you feel like you've got the power over the small world trapped inside. Whether that is an illusion or not you, or anyone else, would never question it. Why would you question something that is already in your hands?

Well, you're questioning right now.

Only because you can't feel it. It's not there. Your hands are just grabbing at air, but you can see it. But you can't reach it. It's very depressing and frustrating, but there's nothing you can do, so you end up standing and watching. That's what it feels like. You're not sure if the pressure you're feeling is real. It could be a dream. An hallucination. It's happened before.

And then, just like some kind of fantasy story, the little, blocked off world has the glass surrounding it shatter. It's sudden, but you don't flinch. You've been expecting it, you realise.

It washes over you like some kind of spell. You're seeing stars.

* * *

You feel it. The rubber, the grip and the strength, all of it, holding onto what is unmistakeably your tennis racquet. You smell sweat. Yours, your opponent's, or even the spectators... you don't know. It doesn't matter. But it's heavy, and it suffocates you, almost. This heat... this controlling heat. But you can feel it in you also – that pang of pride, that refusal to give you just because _you can go on _and _you will win_ because honestly, it's all that's in your mind.

You can't see your opponent's face. It doesn't register.

You can feel your muscles in your face, smiling. Or are you smirking? It doesn't matter. They're the same thing, aren't they?

You're panting. Most of your body is being devoured by flames, but you decide you love this feeling, because it's travelling through your veins. It's better than any drug, this feeling. It makes you want to jump up and down like you've just taken a stimulant. _Because you know you've won. _And this game actually matters, you know, because you don't get this rush, if that was a good way to describe it, with weak players.

The hand in yours is strong, perhaps stronger than yours? It doesn't matter, it really doesn't. You've beat the guy, what else matters? A few hours of sweating and panting, and you know it's been a good match. One you haven't enjoyed since about... ten years ago?

* * *

Cold chills then catch you, and it's colder. It's no longer summer, you realise. It's winter. The thing about this place is, the weather is always extreme. Never in between, never mild, or a dose of both.

It suits you.

You're on your knees, and somehow, you're not sure how but you _do _know, that is this junior high school in Japan. The place is probably gone by now, you were aware of those proposals to tear it down after the Earthquake pretty much flattened the place. But it's always there. Just... not materially.

Wondering hands find something that feels like a cap.

Your lips are pressed in a straight line.

It's probably yours.

* * *

Awww, was my second chapter that unpopular? Never mind, Yuuki refuses to be beaten. Anyway, yes, this is Ryoma, and if you wonder what has happened to him, he's dead. How, when, and why is up to you, I guess. **Thanks for reading!**


	4. The Lingerer

"I love you."

"Just... shut up okay?" The other shoves a finger on the his mouth, and it hurts like a bruise you don't notice but stings every time you don't expect it to.

With a battered heart, he looks away and thinks of records breaking, and he almost sees the huge crack on those black disks. His latest fixation isn't logical, but what part of him is anyway?

He feels like some chick of a whore who sells their bodies for pathetic warmth or whatever shit they say. And really, what is the difference? He does the same fucking thing – and the sickest thing about it was that he never used to be like this. This. Desperate. It was like 'get laid or die, this life's not worth living' or something.

So instead, he looks at the other again, and glares.

The other glares back, but then gets the idea and all that's left is sound particles that are still moving from him slamming the fucking door like he owned the place.

And he feels more and more like a woman. One of those dejected, useless women who stay at home all day and don't see their lovers cheat on them.

And perhaps, that's what he's feeling now. That's what's probably driving him crazy, like a slight overdose of drugs that don't quite kill you the way you want it to.

And maybe, that's why he's laughing with tears in his eyes.

* * *

**Notes:** Haters gotta hate. I'm just been imagining that gif of the fat boy with cake. Ok, ignore me. This idea was kinda random and rushed, so it's pretty much like this if you don't get me: Niou gets rejected once before the setting of this drabble (his true love) and that just makes him yern for it even if it means looking for it in the wrong places. Do you get what I mean? This is the shortest one yet hahaha. idk. Feel free to hit me with a baseball bat.


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